


Through the Window

by akane42me



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-17
Updated: 2016-12-17
Packaged: 2018-09-09 03:06:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,712
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8873404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/akane42me/pseuds/akane42me
Summary: Written for the 2016 Down the Chimney exchangeThe Prompts: Defenestration, blue sky, snowMerry Christmas to you, engmaresh!  Best wishes for a happy holiday season!





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [engmaresh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/engmaresh/gifts).



> Written for the 2016 Down the Chimney exchange  
> The Prompts: Defenestration, blue sky, snow
> 
> Merry Christmas to you, engmaresh! Best wishes for a happy holiday season!

**Through the Window**

 

 _Winter uses all the blues there are._  
_One shade of blue for water, one for ice,_  
_Another blue for shadows over snow._  
_The clear or cloudy sky uses blue twice-_  
_Both different blues. And hills row after row_  
_Are colored blue according to how far._  
_You know the bluejay's double-blur device_  
_Shows best when there are no green leaves to show._  
_And Sirius is a winterbluegreen star._

-Robert Francis

 

    

 

_Once again I am alone at Christmas.  I have been looking out my little window.  The moon, a giant white balloon, floats mid-way up the midnight blue sky in the east._

_Tonight I am thinking about an adventure I shared with Napoleon and Kuryakin some years ago.  Not the Amadeus incident everyone knows about, but another, later one._

_It stands out in my mind not because of the bombs, the explosions and fire.  Not because it happened at Christmas._

_I am remembering that night because it was the last time Napoleon spoke to me._

_Another unmerry Christmas._

_If  that U.N.C.L.E. man hadn’t decided to defect.  If Lisa Rogers hadn’t spotted me.  If I hadn’t activated the bombs._

_But it happened, all of it._

_I am lonely tonight._

 

 _May all my enemies go to hell,_ _  
Noel, Noel, Noel, Noel._

 

**New York. December 21, 1969.**

 

“Did you see who’s sitting with Napoleon and Illya?”  That was Susan Whittig’s voice.

Lisa Rogers stopped tugging at her nylons in the bathroom stall and froze.  Out at the long vanity counter, lipstick applicators snapped open and closed.

“ _Yes_.  Who does she think she is?”  That sounded like Marlene Anderson.

“I’d like to know what she does in there with Mr. Waverly all day.”  Was that Connie Vickers?

“She _assists him_.”  Deadpan.

Laughter.  “ _No, seriously, I heard_ –”

“Shhh. Someone’s –” The voices broke off, changed to whispers.  Rapid footsteps, and the door to the women’s room opening, closing, as the three U.N.C.L.E. secretaries returned to the Christmas party. 

Lisa exited the stall and went to the sink.  She looked at herself in the mirror while washing her hands.  Her eyes, like the evening, had suddenly lost their luster.

\----

Earlier that afternoon, Mike Bukowski strolled into the Section Eight Laboratory.  Beyond a casual wave or two, no one paid attention to him.  He belonged there.  He was Dr. Donald Simpson’s number one explosives R & D technician.  They called him the Mad Bomber.

The place was abuzz with activity, none of it work-related.  The place had been given over to the Christmas Committee.  The cafeteria stoves were overburdened with turkey, ham, and the rest of the fixings for the Christmas dinner, so the lab ovens used to bake chemical compounds had been running for two days, churning out Christmas cookies and desserts for this evening’s party.  The lab tables were lined with cookies still waiting to be decorated and piled onto platters.  

Bukowski retrieved a steel-lined briefcase from a rack, set it on an empty table and popped it open.  He went to the technician’s storage vault, unlocked it, and picked out a couple of prototypes of his most recent invention.  He pressed them into the slots cut into the briefcase’s foam core.  He snapped the briefcase closed, locked up the vault, and left the lab like it was any other day, snagging a couple of cookies on the way out. 

He went to his office and stashed the briefcase in the big bag waiting there.  In a couple of hours he’d change into his party suit and go down to the festivities in the cafeteria.    

\----

 

By eight o’clock dinner had been served, devoured, and cleared.  The cafeteria tables had been pushed to one end of the room to make room for Santa. The space was crowded with Headquarters staff dressed in their party finery, dinner drinks and cigarettes in hand.  Chatter and laughter filled the air. Some enterprising soul had gotten an upright piano from who knew where and had installed it next to the long table being used for the bar.  Someone was plinking out holiday songs while a small crowd gathered around and sang along.

The doors to the cafeteria slid open.  With a jingle of bells and a jolly “Ho, Ho, Ho!” Santa burst through the entrance.  He’d hoisted a bulging sack of gifts over one shoulder, and the cheering crowd parted for him as he waved and called “Merry Christmas” as he made his way to the Santa-sized red and gold throne at the front of the room.  Next to the throne stood the Christmas tree, tall and shiny with lights, ornaments and tinsel. 

Illya Kuryakin sat at a table in the corner and watched the merrymaking. Santa was settling his bag of presents on the floor next to the chair, easing it this way and that so nothing spilled out.  A party goer backed into the sack of gifts.  Santa jumped in alarm and shifted the bag closer to the Christmas tree.  Protecting the breakable items, Kuryakin guessed. 

In the far-left corner, the door to the women’s room opened and three girls hurried out.  Lisa Rogers had gone in well before them.  A few moments later, there she was.  Perfect timing, because here came Solo, winding his way from the bar back to their table, his hands triangled around three drink glasses.   Lisa was following in Solo’s wake, but she veered off to the table where the three girls sat. She grabbed a spare chair, sat down, and started talking.  They looked rather surprised, Kuryakin thought.  

Solo arrived and set the drinks on the table.

“Thank you,” said Kuryakin, taking the highball glass containing clear liquid.  He took a swallow and grimaced.  “This is gin.”

“Sorry. George’s tending bar.”  Solo sat down and sampled his drink.  “Hmm.”

“I thought he wasn’t allowed to tend bar anymore,” said Kuryakin.  He took a second, cautious sip of his drink.

“Beggars can’t be choosers.  No one else would volunteer,” Solo replied.

“You could do it.  You make a good drink.”

“I was thinking it’s about time you take a turn.”

“The gin is tasting better by the minute.”

“By the way, where’s Lisa?”  Solo looked around.  “I should take her wine to her.”

“She’s talking with some friends.  Cancel that.  She’s coming back now.”

Lisa plopped into the chair next to Kuryakin, grabbed the glass of wine and drank it in three swallows.  At their expressions, she said, “So sue me.” She handed Kuryakin the glass and said “I need a refill.  Don’t ask.”  Kuryakin took the glass and headed to the bar.

Santa stood and gave his strap of sleigh bells a long, vigorous shake.  “Merry Christmas,” he shouted and lifted the bag of gifts onto the chair.  He reached in, selected a gift and waved it in the air.  “Wanda Henderson!  You’ve been good girl this year!”

“What do you mean, this year? I’m always a good girl!”  Wanda laughed as she retrieved her gift.  “Thank you, Santa!”

Santa rummaged in the bag for the next gift, called the next name.  It was slow going, and by the time a dozen gifts had been passed out, the crowd was getting restless.

“I’m going to lend Santa a hand,” Solo told Lisa.  “See if we can speed things up a bit.”  He joined Santa at the Christmas tree.

“Napoleon,” called one of the secretaries.  “Wait your turn!”  The room burst into laughter.

“Don’t worry, I’m just going to help Santa pass out the gifts,” Solo reassured the secretary, and reached into the bag.

“No! Don’t –” Santa yanked the bag away from Solo and the crowd laughed and hooted in mock disapproval.  Santa sputtered, then said, “You’re on the naughty list!” The crowd laughed louder.  Solo waved them off and returned to the table.  

Lisa was standing, pushing in her chair.

“Are you leaving?” Solo asked her.  “Illya’s getting you another drink.”

“You can have it. I think I’m going to duck out.”  

“But you didn’t get your present yet.”    

“Would you mind taking it for me?  You can leave it on my desk.  Thanks, Napoleon.”  Lisa gave him a little wave and left.

\----

 

Mike Bukowski left via the ground-level exit used by general personnel, going through the parking garage and out to the sidewalk.  He managed to hold it to a casual walk until he rounded the corner onto Third.  He was practically jogging as he passed Diamond International.  People scooted out of his path as he sprinted down the sidewalk, ice and salt crunching under his boots.  On the other side of 45th, he hailed a cab.  No one fought him for it, despite the holiday crush.  No one would dare cheat Santa out of a cab, not on Christmas Eve.

\----

The evening was unseasonably mild, in the upper 30’s.  The fresh air felt so good, Lisa decided to walk to Rockefeller Plaza.  There, she bought a cup of hot cocoa and found a spot to watch the skaters whirling beneath the glow of the magnificent Christmas tree. She sat, remembering another Christmas long ago.  

 

At Christmas break during her freshman year of college, her father took the family to a supper club for dinner.

Her father was at the bar ordering a round of drinks before dinner, and she scooted onto the empty bar stool next to him.  “What’re you having?” he asked.

“How about a Coke?”

While they waited for the drinks, he said, “So, how’s school?”

“Great.  Guess what?  I made the Dean’s list.  I got a 3.9 grade point average.”  She told him about her classes.

“Good for you,” he said.  The bartender brought the drinks.  Her dad passed the Coke to her and pulled out his wallet.  “Go ahead. I’ll meet you and Mom at the table.” 

She was only a step away when she heard her dad tell the bartender, “What a waste of money.  She’s just going to end up marrying some guy and having a bunch of kids.”

Stung, she walked to the table.  She’d been so proud of what she’d achieved.  To hear her father disparage her, his own daughter, to that man - his comment was a slap in the face.

 

That was seven years ago.  She remembered the hurt as if it had happened yesterday.  But she’d slammed the door on the pain and kept going.  Forgave her dad.  In time, he’d changed his tune.  

After the bathroom incident, she’d dealt with the anger by inviting the three girls to join her, Napoleon, and Illya at their table.  She grinned, thinking of their shocked expressions. They’d declined, all at once full of excuses.  Their loss.  Who cared?  Maybe in time, they’d change their—   

“Taxi!”  The voice, so familiar.  A tan cashmere-caped figure swept past her, arm raised.  The platinum blonde hair…

\----

Santa was long gone and the party thinning out when Solo’s communicator beeped.  He made a face at Kuryakin and answered the call.  “Solo here.”

“Napoleon.”  Lisa’s voice crackled over the sounds of the party.  “I’m in a cab, following Angelique. I thought it would be a nice little Christmas gift for Mr. Waverly if we could nab her.  Should I proceed?”

“Is she alone?”

“Yes.”

Kuryakin was already standing.  Solo said, “We’re on our way.  I’ll call you when we’re in the car.  You can give us your location then, and we’ll catch up with you.  Don’t follow too closely.”

“I’m not.”

\----

 

Lisa followed Angelique’s cab to a small country inn on the outskirts of New Rochelle.  She waited outside for five minutes, then went in.  The little lobby was clear.  She presented her U.N.C.L.E. credentials to the woman at the front desk and asked for the manager, who confirmed that a blonde-haired woman in a tan cashmere cape had just checked in. He gave Lisa the room number.  A few minutes later, she contacted Solo.

“We’re at the North Country Inn outside of New Rochelle.”

“Find out what room she’s in.”

“Already done.  285. ”

“Okay. Keep an eye on the elevator until we get there.”

Kuryakin added, “There will be additional exits to cover.”

“It’s handled. The manager has a couple of his people keeping an eye on her door.”

“Good job. We’re about fifteen minutes away.  If Angelique makes a move, let us know.”  Solo capped his communicator.  “Impressive.”

Kuryakin nodded.  “Did you expect anything less?”

“No. She was headed to Section Two, top of her class, but Mr. Waverly saw her records and recruited her as his secretary.  Cutter was irate.”

“His secretary.”  Kuryakin was silent for a moment.  “She’s taken over tactical analysis and Section II briefings.”

“There’s really no name for what she does.  But it certainly isn’t secretary.”

\----

 

“I’ll have a glass of red wine, please.”  Lisa watched the mirror behind the bartender.  The bar was off the lobby, and she could see the elevator in the mirror.

When the drink came, she took a pretend sip and set it down.  Cold air caught at her feet, and she turned to the inn’s entrance, thinking Solo and Kuryakin must have floored it all the way to the inn.  To her surprise, a man in a Santa suit strode inside, went past the front desk and straight to the elevator.  He pressed the Up button.  The door slid open.  He stepped in.  The door closed.  The elevator stopped at the second floor.  

The second floor?  A coincidence?  Lisa didn’t think so.  She hadn’t seen Santa’s face, but she knew an U.N.C.L.E. armored attaché when she saw one.  It was Santa from Section Eight.  The Mad Bomber.

Lisa called Solo.  “We have a problem.”

\----

Solo and Kuryakin hurried into the inn a few minutes later.  Lisa met them in the lobby and handed Solo the room key she’d gotten from the manager.  Solo pushed the car keys at her and said, “The car’s right outside.  Get it started and keep it running.  Be ready to get out in a hurry.  We’ve got a backup team coming behind us, but we’re not waiting.  We need to make our play before Angelique makes hers.” 

Solo and Kuryakin went to the elevator.  Solo hit the Up button.   

The elevator opened.  Solo got in and was stabbing at the second floor button when Lisa took a couple of steps toward them and said, “I could go up with you.”

Kuryakin turned to her.  “Go where he tells you.  Do what he tells you.”  

Lisa answered, "Will do," but the elevator door was already closing.  

\----

Solo eased Angelique’s door open.  Weapons drawn, they entered the suite.  A Christmas tree strung with glowing blue lights stood before the curtained window.  On the floor between the sofa and the coffee table, the U.N.C.L.E. Santa lay unmoving, eyes closed.  The door to the bedroom was closed.

Solo knelt at Bukowski’s side and checked for a pulse. “He’s dead.”

Kuryakin went to the bedroom door and rattled the knob.  “Locked.”  He stepped back and aimed his gun at the doorknob.

“Illya.  Wait.”

Kuryakin stopped. “What do you propose we do?”

“She knows we’ve got her. She’ll want to make a deal.” Solo called, “Come out, Angelique.”

No sound came from behind the door.  Kuryakin stepped back and shot at the doorknob.

\----

 

_Do not be deceived by Kuryakin’s size.  He is small, but he is made of iron.  He is fast.  He is ruthless._

_I was about to answer Solo’s call._   _Kuryakin moved so quickly on me that I think he was trying to prevent it.  We’ll never know._

_\----_

The bedroom door jerked open, and a one-inch black sphere with a tiny red blinking light hurtled at them.  It bounced on the floor and rolled under the Christmas tree. 

“What the –”  Solo rose to his feet.

“Get down!”  Kuryakin hurled himself at Solo and they crashed to the floor, landing on Santa.

The mini-bomb exploded.  The Christmas tree burst into flame and flew across the room, blocking the hall door.  The living room windows blew out.  Fire rushed up the curtains and spread across the ceiling.

“The bedroom,” Solo yelled.  He and Kuryakin hurled themselves at the bedroom door, smashing it open.  Inside, Angelique had fled to the bathroom, slamming the door with a shriek.  Kuryakin beat Solo to the bathroom door and kicked it open.  Angelique had an arm raised, preparing to throw something at Kuryakin - another tiny black sphere with a red, blinking light.  Kuryakin wrenched it from her, tossed it into the bathtub, shoved Angelique out of the bathroom ahead of him, and slammed the door.  The bathroom exploded.  The door burst into flaming splinters.  Flames shot into the bedroom. 

Solo was at the bedroom window, yanking at the sash.  It refused to budge.  He stripped off his jacket and smashed the window. 

Angelique made a run for the bedroom door.

“Illya!  Grab her!” Solo shouted.   

Kuryakin did, yanking Angelique off her feet and propelling her toward the window.  “Go!” he yelled to Solo.

Solo draped his jacket on the window sill, grabbed the side of the frame, climbed over the sill, and jumped. 

Kuryakin lifted Angelique onto the window sill and looked down.  Solo was standing in the snow below the window, legs wide, arms spread, shouting “Go, go, go!”

\----

 

_Fresh snow on the lawn.  My face was cold.  My backside burned._

_I watched Napoleon’s arms making gyrating, hurry-up motions at me.  His mouth formed words I could not make out.  The sky was midnight blue.  Sirius, bright to the southeast._

_The moon hung above it all._

_I am always amazed at the number of useless details one finds time to take in when time is running out._

_\----_

 

“Jump!” Kuryakin barked at Angelique.  

She hesitated, turned, and looked at the inferno behind her.  Kuryakin jabbed her in the back with his pistol.  She looked down at Solo, then jumped.  Kuryakin jumped in the next second.  He landed on Angelique’s back, and then Solo was pulling him off her and putting his own knee between her shoulder blades and grabbing her wrists, twisting them, locking them into handcuffs while she screeched like a night owl, her breath heaving white clouds into the cold night air.  

\----

 

_Kuryakin saved my life.  I am not entirely grateful to him, though, because he saved his own life as well.  I could have done without that._

_I turned from my perch on the window sill and threw a last look at the living room.  The Christmas tree was engulfed in fire, the flames licking the ceiling._

_When Kuryakin prodded me with the barrel of his gun - as though I needed prodding with a deadly weapon to convince me to leap -  if Napoleon had not been watching us from below, I would have locked my arms around Kuryakin's throat and taken us both down in hopes that his stiff neck would snap when we hit the ground._

_I flung myself into the midnight blue air and flew downward into Napoleon’s arms.  A delicious moment, destroyed a moment later by Kuryakin’s arrival.  The man has no sense of timing._

_I  have seen the Russian in action on many occasions, and he is quite agile. I cannot imagine how he managed to land with his pointy knees and elbows in my spine except by premeditation._

_The impact of the blast left me unable to hear, so I may have missed his apology, although I doubt there was one._

_How do you say ‘lemon’ in Russian?  Surely it is ‘Kuryakin’._

\---

 

“’We attempted to negotiate with Angelique.’” Kuryakin’s voice was low, heated.  He stood in front of Solo’s desk, his partner’s field report in hand.  “She’d already killed Bukowski – after recruiting him— and you told me to wait.  I—”

Kuryakin paused, took a long breath.  “She tried to kill you.  Not to mention me.  I don’t like getting killed.”  He shook his head in exasperation.  “When are you going to stop this, this whatever it is you think you’re doing with her?” 

Solo stopped rubbing his forehead and looked up at his partner. 

“This has to stop.”  Kuryakin dropped the report on Solo’s desk and walked out.

\----

 

Two weeks later, they were still barely talking.  Lisa Rogers said, “This has to stop.”    She went to the bookstore.

 ----

_The Rogers woman is a flinty one.  She marched me through the indecencies of female-prisoner intake with no courtesy whatsoever._

_The cell they put me in was not bad.  A guard brought a luncheon plate for me.  They’d kept me up all night and well past noon the next day. Ham, potatoes au gratin, haricot verts – reheated remnants of the previous evening’s Christmas dinner.  And two star-shaped cutout cookies frosted and dusted with red and green sprinkles._

_There is something nice about jumping out of a window. It didn’t occur to me at the time. Too much was happening, the fire, the explosion, Napoleon’s outstretched arms, Kuryakin’s gun at my back.  But in the quiet of the cell, I remembered the moment of flying. I often dreamt I could fly when I was a child. A glorious sensation of freedom. What sort of a bird flies in a frozen midnight blue winter sky?_

_Last night I dreamed I was flying, but then I knew I couldn’t fly and I fell.  A bluejay caught me and brought me to safety in a cluster of snowy pines at the edge of the grounds._

  _Why have you never come to see me?  I have forgiven you for placing the handcuffs on my wrists. Perhaps you do not think I have._

_You held those handcuffs like they were the heaviest things in the world.  By the time I'd stopped fighting and you had them on me, you looked used up.  Your eyes so weary, resigned._

_One falls through the midnight blue winter air and hits frozen ground._

_I think of you, of us, when I see boarded-up windows.  Was the price too high to make repairs?_

_\----_

 

In his office, Kuryakin riffled the pages of ‘War and Peace’.  The gift card read, “From a friend, in peace.” 

In his office, Solo riffled the pages of ‘War and Peace’.  The gift card read, “From a friend, in peace.”

Solo called Kuryakin.  “Are you busy?”

“I was just about to call you.”

 

 

**The End**

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to:  
> Hillaire Belloc for 'Lines For a Christmas Card'  
> and  
> Robert Francis for 'Blue Winter'


End file.
